


to be alone (with you)

by alisdas



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (kinda), Abusive Parents, Age Difference, Alpha!Steve, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Misogyny, Older Man/Younger Woman, Past Abuse, Pet Names, Scenting, Stalking, brock is a creep, giving u very........lumberjack chic, idk but this has it, its legal technically but whatevs, lumberjack!steve, omega!reader, reader is on da run lads, steve calls u pup :') and bub :'), steve has a DOGGIE, steve is Big Bad and SOFT, whats misogyny specifically against omegas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:28:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26450038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisdas/pseuds/alisdas
Summary: steve is a simple man. he lives alone, works alone, and is quite content with it, too.life, however, has a way of tugging even the most solitary people into madness — even if that madness comes in the form of a young omega girl.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Past Brock Rumlow/Reader, Steve Rogers/Reader, but not really - Relationship
Comments: 14
Kudos: 138





	to be alone (with you)

This time of year isn’t kind, not up here. Not up here, where the air is slightly thinner, the wind harsher, the temperature low enough to see your fingertips blue within a few hours if you’re not careful. But it’s home for Steve — all of it. Rain droplets like tiny little icicles shooting down from the sky; grass and mud and dead foliage compacting underfoot into a thick, slippery layer that makes every step feel like a thousand. The woods become deadly quiet, even in the morning; no birds, no bears, no wolves, it seems. Only the roaring of the rushing river that cuts through the upland. Outsiders think it’s unsettling, but—

It’s home for Steve. 

The mountains. The quiet. The chill of the day; the morning dew that shines golden-orange at dawn. The icy cloud of white that follows each breath, the steady thud of water against the windows of his cabin. No obnoxious traffic, no steady din of voices and miscellaneous noises — quiet. No smog and sweat and alcohol stinging his nose, no pheromones sticking to his tongue and clouding his senses. A simple life — lonely, some would say, but it suits him just fine.

The day starts out as any other. He lets Cap out, first — the Great Dane is already scratching at the door by the time Steve is up, waiting until it’s unlocked before nudging it open with his nose and disappearing past the tree line within seconds. He bolts by his food bowl in lieu of hunting his own, and the morning is quiet once more. Steve grabs a can of beans and a packet of beef jerky for breakfast, coffee he brewed yesterday — and after a hurried meal he’s got his axe and his wheelbarrow and he’s making the 30-minute journey he makes every other day.

 _Storm’s closing in,_ he thinks, glancing up at the silvery-grey sky as he walks — the path he takes is well-worn, shrouded in cedar and fir, far from the main road. _Won’t be passing for the next few days._ That means he needs to get his ass to the chopping block and cut as much wood as he can while he still can — his supply’s running low, and though he usually only has the fire going for a few hours each day to prevent a complete shortage, it’s better to be safe than sorry.

The threat of rain hangs heavy in the sky — and that _smell_ , that smell that always preludes a vicious electric storm. Like electricity, ozone, sharp and static in his mouth, and he glances up once more as he lugs another lump of timber to the cutting block. He only hopes that the power will hold — last time everything was cut, and he’d had to rummage around the depths of his shed for some shitty candles that he’s sure had been there since Peg—

Since… a long time ago.

The work fills the better half of the morning, the steady _chop!_ of his axe a song of sorts. The pile of firewood begins as a few stray clumps, but slowly yet surely it continues to amass. _Chop! Chop! Chop!_ Another pile begins to form beside the first, and he knows he’ll have to make a second trip with the wheelbarrow to transport it all back, but the weight of the axe in his hands and the comforting ache in his muscles are enough to make him continue — at least for a little longer, because the first few drops of rain find the bridge of his nose and he knows he better get on home before—

Before _this_ happens. _This_ being the torrential rain battering down from above, the rumbling of thunder in the distance, the sky darkened to slate. More than once the sky flashes with lightning, reflecting bright white off the puddles forming in the mud, and even though Steve knows that being out in it all isn’t exactly safe, there’s a certain comfort that comes with being surrounded by it. With the rain so loud you can barely hear yourself think, because Lord knows Steve thinks a tad too much.

His hair hangs heavy against his forehead with rainwater, the skin beneath his beard beginning to itch with the trails of water percolating through the thickness. _Maybe I should shave,_ he thinks vaguely, pushing the overfilled wheelbarrow along with ease. _Buck’s been teasin’ me about that for weeks now._ He’ll give it some thought like he always does, but he knows he won’t be even close to touching his shaver. If he still has it, that is. Another one of those things that’s been shoved into the back of his cabinet under the bathroom sink, or deposited in the shed somewhere, or accidentally left in the boxes that had left along with Peg—

Like he said: thinks a tad too much.

The first load of firewood is dumped into his shed — old and bordering on shabby, having been built by his grandfather way back when, but it’s as stubborn as a mule and he has no doubt it’ll still be standing long after he’s gone. Keeps the wood dry, and that’s all he really cares about. He’s back out into the rain in seconds, though, hiking back again to where the last of the wood is sitting. Loads it up again, heaves up the top of the wheelbarrow and is prepared to lug it all the way back, when—

All of a sudden, the wind changes, cold and unrelenting as it hits his face — and Steve’s just bombarded with this sudden smell that makes his ears prick up: _sweetness_. Not the sweetness of rain, no; it’s like honey and pecan pie and caramel apples, the smell of carnivals and family-owned diners and late morning breakfasts, sticky with syrup. Steve can’t help but inhale it, nostrils flaring, because that’s the scent of an _omega_. That sugary softness that sits so heavily on his tongue, clings to the roof of his mouth, but—

It’s flawed. Soured. Marred by anxiety, foul and acrid in the back of his mouth, tainted by the stinging smokiness of fear. It turns his stomach, that string of gloom. Makes his eyes narrow and his fists clench — that instinct to just — just protect whoever it is welling up like a spring in his chest. If he turns his head just so, he can hear the sound of steps over the rain — flurried and rushed, panicked, and he’s turning towards it when—

“Hey, hey—” 

A form barrels from the trees and right into him — _a girl,_ his mind supplies unhelpfully, _an omega_ — stumbles and flounders. From the mud, from the rain, from her own skittishness, he’s unsure; all he knows is that in less than a moment she’s fallen, hitting the mud hard. The fall doesn’t phase her, though — eyes wide, she continues to scarper away from him until her back slams against the broad trunk of a cedar tree, chest heaving, erratic and shaky.

In that moment, his mind sheds every bitter criticism, every grim critique, every ounce of loneliness and skepticism that’s gathered over the years — and he’s almost surprised at the softness his usually gruff voice takes, kneeling slowly to his haunches with his hands spread wide in surrender. It’s been a long time since he’s comforted anyone, let alone a young omega who looks as if her heart’s a second away from jumping out of her chest — it’s been a long time since he’s injected that warmth and comfort and dominance into his voice, the quote unquote _alpha voice_. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Look, ‘m not gonna hurt ya. I promise, I’m not gonna hurt ya.“

Her bottom lip trembles — eyes flitting over his shoulder and then over her own, too, fingernails digging into the mud, and her chest is still rising and falling all quick and flustered. She’s panicking — and when you panic, you’re more likely to act out. 

“What’re you doin’ this far up?” He tries to keep his voice gentle, but he still needs to be heard over the rain. He takes the fact that you’re not trying to claw his eyes out like a bobcat as a good thing, at least. “‘S not safe out in this weather, pup. Storm’s rollin’ in real strong.”

You still don’t say anything, but the second the word _pup_ is out of his mouth your head snaps towards him — eyes not particularly narrowed or widened, but scrutinising him all the same, distrust clear on the curve of your brow. Your gaze trails over the worn flannel of his shirt and the thickness of his beard, the warmth that he wears in his scent. 

Another roll of thunder grumbles right overhead, so loud that it seems to make the tree trunks of the great fir and cedar trees shudder in their anchored spots, and Steve is once again put on the offensive as you jump, visibly clamming up. 

"We’re in the thick of it,” he reminds you, not unkindly but a tad gruff. His clothes are clinging to his skin at this point, fabric and hair and skin thoroughly soaked through, and you’re no better. Your clothes are already threadbare, it seems — an old hoodie with faded lettering, a pair of holey leggings, some running shoes (all completely dense with water, of course). “Where’re you headed?" 

You just shake your head frantically, and he’s not sure whether that’s code for _I don’t know_ or _don’t ask_. Either way, it’s pretty clear you’ve got nowhere to go right now, whether because of the fact that the roads are probably flooded or because of something else, he doesn’t know. All he knows is—

( _Need to make her safe_ , his brain tells him — that part he’s been tempering down for years. _Safe and warm and happy_.)

—is that you’re young and vulnerable and in need of help, biology be damned, and he knows he’s not the only alpha around these parts. If you’d ended up by the creek just 45 minutes away, you’d be dealing with a whole ‘nother sort of alpha — but Steve doesn’t want to think about that. Instead:

He swallows, peering over his shoulder — the sky looks as if it could collapse with the weight of the clouds, blackened silver, and he knows you can’t stay out in it. "Look, I — I’ve got a cabin 30 minutes or so away from here. Y’ can’t stay out in this.”

Your eyes narrow once more, and distrust hangs heavy in the air — curling like salt on the tip of his tongue, and Steve rushes to add: “I’m not tryin’ anythin’ fishy, if that’s what you’re thinkin’. ‘M not the type of alpha that — that would do that. You can walk behind me if you need to, just — let’s get you cleaned up, bub. You’ll catch your death like this.”

He holds out his hand — hopes to God that you’ll take it, or at least agree to his terms because he doesn’t want to think about what’ll happen to you if you decide to disappear back into the forest, back into the storm—

You don’t take his hand — and he expected that, in all honesty — but you do push yourself to your feet, staring at the mud painted over the white of your runners, clasping your hands together as you wait for him to lead the way. 

( _This is good,_ his mind tells him. _This is something, at least.)_

“Right,” he says out loud, rising to a stand. He finds his way back to the wheelbarrow he’d abandoned earlier. “This way, then. Jus’ — jus’ keep to the grass, okay? Don’t want you slippin’ and fallin’ again, right?”

You keep your distance, wary and cautious, but every time he glances back to check that you’re okay, you’re still following — that counts for something, he thinks. More than once he finds you with your eyes to the ground, carefully stepping over fallen trunks or tree roots, but you’re still almost hyper-aware of your surroundings — _what had you been running from?_

It’s a question that’s been burning the front of his mind ever since you exploded through the tree line — he’d even been keeping an ear out for any approaching sounds, any flashes of movement between the trees, but nothing. You’d gotten away from whatever — _whoever_ — you were running from, and though that’s enough to give him some sort of relief, it doesn’t help the tension that sets itself into his shoulders.

His cabin comes into sight 40 minutes earlier — the journey slowed by his deliberately slow steps. He found himself making his strides smaller, his gait unrushed and steady when you begin to fall behind. You must be weak, he thinks — your knees buckling over the smallest dips in the ground, and the way you carry yourself is feeble, unsteady. The bags under your eyes and the greyness of your skin — you probably haven’t been eating very well, or sleeping, either. The thought makes him frown. 

“I’ll leave the door open,” he calls over the rain, pushing open the door. “Just in case you wanna…”

_Leave. Just in case you want to leave._

Steve’s almost too aware of the state of his home as he enters, you trailing behind him. It’s not _dirty_ — but it’s… it’s worn. Large, yes, but worn. Built from the ground up almost 80 years ago by his grandfather — none of those modern floor-to-ceiling windows or marble countertops. There’s wooden beams overhead and mismatched blankets on the frumpy couches; a corner of the kitchen island has been chewed by Cap, there’s a leak in the ceiling by the back door that drips into a metal bucket underneath. He’s never been particularly bothered by it all himself, but now that you’re here — now that he’s seeing it from _your_ eyes, he can’t help but notice everything that’s not right.

( _Because he needs to_ provide _— that’s what a good alpha should do, isn’t it? Provide for their partner, give them the best they can—_ ** _shut up,_** _Steve thinks._ ** _Shut up_** _.)_

"Not much,” he says, noticing you lingering by the open doorway as he picks up the coffee cup left over from the morning. The sight of you in his space — his _home_ — is something that makes him hold his breath momentarily. It’s been a long time since he’s had an omega in here. “But it’s home.”

And he doesn’t expect you to answer, really, because it’s more of an offhanded observation rather than a prompt to speak, and you haven’t exactly been forthright or open in the short time he’s known you, but — you clear your throat, shuffling unsurely. “I… I think it’s lovely.”

It’s the first time he’s heard your voice. A bit gravelly from disuse, so quiet he wouldn’t have heard you if it hadn’t stunned him — but _soft_. Soft and gentle, not all rough-and-tumble like he knows his is. He almost cracks the mug he’s holding from how tight his grip becomes — gathers his uncharacteristically chaotic thoughts enough to send you a tight-lipped smile.

“I’ll get you a towel, alright?” He says, starting towards the bathroom. “Make yourself at home.”

“O-okay.”

He fetches his largest, softest towel from the bathroom cupboard, and he stops by his own room to get you something to wear — something warm and cosy, probably too big for you. There are, of course, certain connotations that… rise to mind at the idea of an omega wearing his clothes — surrounding herself in his scent — but they’re pushed down as easily as they rise up, and he turns back to the living room.

He’s pleased to see you’ve moved further in; no longer standing at the doorway, but hovering over by the couch. The door’s still open, and you’re making no move to sit, but still. He approaches you carefully, handing you the towel and the flannel and the sweatpants, and the socks, too. “Here. Thought you might want somethin’ warm to wear.”

You stay silent, but you look up at him with your eyes all big and thankful, and honestly he’s just happy that you aren’t actively scampering away from him. It’s only when you glance back down at the clothes, and then back at him, hesitant, that he realises just what you’re waiting for.

“The, uh, bathroom is right ‘round the corner,” he says. “I’ll find you somethin’ to eat, okay, pup?”

He watches from the corner of his eye as you disappear around the corner, and in the subsequent silence he’s left wondering just _when_ his day took such a strange turn. If he’d known when he woke up that he’d be housing a mysterious omega, he would’ve gone grocery shopping at least. Sighing, Steve turns to his infamously barren larder. He’ll have to see what he can do.

This alpha is… strange. Though, staring at yourself in the mirror, hair plastered to your forehead and mud covering your entire back half, you suppose that you’re strange, too. 

This alpha is strange because he is gruff and broad and scary-looking, but… unexpectedly gentle. He calls you _pup_ — the term of endearment flows peculiarly from him, though, like he’s not quite used to being so soft. You don’t suppose he gets a lot of company up here, up in these mountains. 

It should scare you, you think. The fact that you’re isolated up here, a good while away from society. The fact that he’s evidently quite a bit older than you, and an alpha, and he could _literally_ do anything to you if he pleased. You’ve never been particularly strong, and your recent lack of nutrition hasn’t exactly helped. And — try as you might — you’re not utterly immune to an alpha’s command. 

Your mother always said that alphas weren’t meant to comfort, they were meant to control. She didn’t say it bitterly, or sadly. It was just… a reminder. A reminder that you had to remember and accept, because you’re an omega and your place is _beneath_ them. She was matter-of-fact, intense and severe in that way that she always was. As far from an omega as you were taught an omega was.

…Needless to say, you’ve been through enough in your life to be wary of alphas until the end of time. But…

You don’t know. You’ve gotten this far, haven’t you? Sure, the close-call at the omega shelter a few miles back was terrifying, but you’d gotten away before you could be caught. And this man isn’t activating your fight or flight like… like _some_ alphas you know.

Shaking your head, you attempt to detangle some of the snags in your hair with your fingers.

 _Yes, he’s strange,_ you reiterate. And you must be strange to him, too, what with… well, _everything_ about you. Your circumstances are in no way normal.

You keep the bathroom door propped open as you change, just a bit. You don’t want the door being locked on you — alphas are alphas, no matter how kind they appear to be, and you have no plan of being locked up and taken advantage of like some clueless horror movie protagonist. So you keep a steady eye on the sliver of hallway peeking through the door frame as you peel your clothes off; you haven’t changed in days. Haven’t properly showered in two weeks. You’ve been using gas station toilets to clean yourself up, and as one can imagine, they’re not exactly the _pinnacle_ of personal hygiene. This man has toiletries; shampoo and conditioner and shower gel, but you don’t reach for them for fear of overstaying your welcome. You simply splash your face with water and rinse the mud away, dry yourself down, and then slip on the clothes he’d left for you — the sweatpants that are a bit loose around the ankles and tight around the hips, the socks that are _much_ too big, and the flannel that passes your fingertips.

It was kind of him to lend you them. It was kind of him to bring you to his home — you, an unmated omega — without expecting more. He… For the first time in two weeks, the unease in your stomach has lightened just slightly; maybe it’s the prospect of a full stomach, or a roof over your head, or…

You can’t help yourself: as you slip the shirt over your head, you lift the front to your nose and inhale deeply. He just — his scent is so _good_. And it’s _everywhere_ in this house, every inch of wooden floor and wooden ceiling and — there’s a lot of wood. His scent is musky and heavy in a way that’s so fucking _pleasant_ , sitting on your tongue like bitter coffee and sweet cream — he wears his emotions on his sleeve. The concept of scent blockers must be a completely alien idea to him, and you can’t even pretend that you’re not glad. Right now he’s just radiating warmth and safety and—

You blink, pulling back — you can’t let yourself sink into your own thoughts. You’re almost ashamed as you let the shirt fall back against you; ashamed of your own stupidity, naivety, willingness to trust. It’s what got you in this situation in the first place, miles from home and with nothing to your name except a pair of shoes and two articles of clothing. 

_And look at you now,_ your brain seems to laugh. _Shacked up with an alpha in the middle of a storm you can’t outrun_. _Not exactly Einstein, are you?_ _Have you learned_ ** _nothing_** _about them?_

Stupid. You’re stupid. But you can’t go for much longer without a plate of food and a full night’s sleep, so you’ll have to take the risk. 

Steve manages to salvage a can of tomato soup, a few slices of bread, some butter, and some cheese from his kitchen. He’s halfway through heating up the soup and making a grilled cheese when you emerge from the bathroom, holding your dirty clothes and the used towel sheepishly. It’s then — between averting his eyes from the sight of you in his clothes and directing you to the washing machine — that he remembers to give you his name.

“Steve,” he says. “Steve Rogers.”

You take a seat at his table — half of it is covered in old newspapers, a toolbox, a couple of letters that should already be thrown out — and while Steve busies himself with stirring the soup and flipping the sandwich, he can’t help but notice the way you sit. Even now, even in his less-than-perfect house, you hold yourself so modestly — like you’re afraid to take up more than the minimum amount of space. You clasp your hands together in your lap, shoulders caved into yourself, your knees pressed hard together. You look like you’re trying to make yourself as small as possible — but, he realises, your eyes never move from the food.

“What’s your name?”

He places the plate in front of you with a glass of water, before standing back to lean against the counter with a hastily made cup of coffee. You barely wait for him to back up before you’re digging in, scarfing down what could only be a subpar meal, and the fact that you don’t even stop to check it first is what worries him. It took you ten minutes alone to walk fully into the house, after all. You weren’t exactly short of caution.

There’s no answer to his question — you twirl the spoon nervously, fingers picking at the loose threads of the sweatpants, and he decides that figuring out your name can wait. The next few minutes consist of Steve watching carefully as you plough through the food, lifting the bowl to your mouth and tearing apart the sandwich, gulping down water like you weren’t just soaked with rain 30 minutes ago. There’s something ravenous in the way you eat — something feral and frantic. It worries him, but then _everything_ about you seems to worry him in some way.

“When’s the last time you ate, pup?” 

You spare a reluctant glance up from the soup. "I…Yesterday morning.” A little pause, and at the frown on his face, you add: ”…An apple.“

 _Fuck_. You weren’t eating properly, then, and the thought’s enough to turn his stomach. He runs a hand over his beard, considering you. "You don’t got any family to call? Any friends? Where were you headed to, anyway?" 

Your brow furrows, eyes narrowing in displeasure — not _completely_ at him, he senses. It’s as if you’re remembering something unpleasant, but the look is gone in a second and you simply shake your head, peering over at him again.

"Town. I was… going to get a bus somewhere." 

No family, then. And either no idea of where you were going, or no wish to tell him. He doesn’t blame you — he’s glad that you’re exercising _some_ caution at least. He wouldn’t _dream_ of hurting you, but… not all alphas have your best interest in mind, to say the least.

“I can drive you into town tomorrow at the earliest,” Steve says after a few moments of silence — because as much as every cell in his body is _itching_ to make it his business, it’s not. The sooner you’re gone, the sooner he can get back to his regular life. "Roads’ll be closed with the weather by now. Won’t be able to get far.”

It can’t be later than four in the afternoon, but the sky is almost black. Rain still thuds steadily off the roof — an errant roll of thunder loud and fearsome through the still-open door. Wind blows in through it, and he sees you restrain a shiver. “D’you… want me to close the door…?”

“No!” You hurry to say it, but the second the word is out of your mouth you look like you’re regretting it. He guesses you _want_ the door closed — it’s cold, for God’s sake, even for him, even for an alpha in his prime running as hot as a radiator — but it’s also, to you, an escape path. Again, he wonders just what you’ve been through to make you so flighty — what you’d experienced to make you latch onto and memorise exits and escape routes. Obviously, he knows that anybody in their right mind would be at least a _little_ uncomfortable in a stranger’s home, at least a little bit _wary_ — but this is more than that. He can sense it, but you’re just so closed up.

(And again, his more _instinctive_ brain is poking its nose into his thoughts: _that’s your job. Make her feel safe. Protect._

 _Shut_ ** _up_** _,_ Steve replies. _This has nothing to do with you._ )

He clears his throat, looking back down at his too-strong cup of coffee as he nods his head towards the cupboard beside the fireplace. “Got a shotgun in that there cupboard. Y’ can take it, if it makes you feel better. Know a lot of alphas… lot of ‘em ain’t got no problem with takin’ advantage of an omega. I want you to feel safe, pup.”

For a moment you just stare at him, wide-eyed and unsure. You scratch absentmindedly at the scent glands on your wrist, and he tries not to glance down as a fresh wave of _you_ begins to ebb and flow through the air — then, still watching him cautiously, you stand. You inch over to the cupboard, eyes never leaving him, and you grapple blindly with the cupboard door until it swings open.

Just as he’d said — a shotgun. A pump-action shotgun, to be more specific; his backup. He’s got one for hunting that he’s pretty sure he’s left in his truck, and this one hasn’t been touched in a few weeks. 

“Y’know how to use it?” He asks carefully. Doesn’t seem like you would — the gun looks so _foreign_ in your hands, like it really shouldn’t be in your grasp. You handle it with an odd mix of gratefulness and mild disgust — seems like you don’t particularly like it, just like he’d thought.

“My… I knew someone who had one like this,” you say, holding it limply by your side. “I think I remember how to use it.”

That’s the longest sentence you’ve said so far, he thinks. “Good,” he acknowledges. “That’s good. I’m gonna close the door now, is that okay?”

This time, you give a hesitant nod, and Steve moves slowly away from the kitchen and to the front door. When he gets there, though, he doesn’t immediately close it: first, he whistles — sharp and high-pitched — and within moments Cap is bounding towards him. Momentarily, he wonders if he should’ve warned you before his giant of a dog entered the house — but the second you catch a glimpse of the Great Dane, your eyes widen with wonder.

“This is Cap,” Steve says apologetically, watching with critical eyes as the dog begins to sniff at you. “Might look scary, but he’s just a big baby.”

Evident by how the big lug is frantically nudging his nose against your knees and licking the tips of your fingers — and you barely hear Steve, it seems, bowing your head to murmur sweetly to the old dog. He catches the tail end of _you’re such a good boy! Yes you are!_ as he returns to his spot, leaning against the kitchen counter.

Cap likes you. That’s good. Steve tries to not let that thought go too much to his head.

“He’s very sweet,” you speak up, and Steve tries to not smile like a fool at the fact that you’re voluntarily speaking, now. 

“Found ‘im just off the main road when he was a baby,” he replies. “Owners abandoned him.”

You let out a little sound of pity, scratching behind Cap’s great floppy ears. “He must be a good hunter.”

“He would be. Spends most of his days sleepin’, though.”

His only answer is a hum, and he figures that you’ve tired out your capacity for socialisation for the day. So he clears his throat and sets down his cup of coffee, peering up at the leak across the room. It’d do him good to keep himself busy, what with you… scenting up the place. He needs something he knows how to do, something to distract himself from the steadily-sweetening scent radiating from your direction—

“I’ve got some work t’ do around the house,” he says, smoothing his hand thoughtfully over his beard. “I got some, uh, some books if you wanna read ‘em.”

You blink over at him, fingers stilling on Cap’s head. “I… can help.”

Steve almost laughs — his ma would have his head if he made a guest help with the housework. And an omega girl, at that. He might’ve been a bit of a recluse over the past few years, but he sure as hell still had Sarah Rogers’ teachings drilled into his brain. Call him old fashioned, but, well, it’s just the way he is. 

“That’s okay, pup. Y’ look like you could use some down time.” He doesn’t imagine that you’ve had a lot of time to relax lately. He doesn’t know how long you’ve been away from home — hell, if you even had a home to begin with — but the way your eyes lit up when he said _books_ seals the deal. 

He crosses the room to one of many bookshelves in his home, grunting as he kneels to the bottom shelf. Half of the books in his possession were his grandfather’s, and even years later he’s only made it a fraction through — his fingers brush against the weathered spine of a particularly loved edition of James Joyce’s _Ulysses_ , before he stands once more. “Got a bunch here. Take your pick.”

You wait until he’s backed up to the kitchen until you venture over to where he once stood, and he busies himself with getting out his toolbox while you stand unsurely by the shelf. It’s only once he’s actually gotten his tools and his step ladder out that you actually begin to peruse the selection, as if comforted by the fact that his attention is captured elsewhere.

Even though — really, if he’s being honest — it’s not. He’s smoothing spackling paste over the tiny leak in the ceiling; temporary, until the rain stops and he can get onto the roof. The motions are repetitive and mundane, and he finds his eyes trailing to you every few seconds, almost unwillingly. He’s not tryna be _creepy_ , he’s not tryna _watch_ you like some dirty old alpha, but… it’s cute, the way you mouth the titles under your breath. The way you tug one out and read the blurb before pushing it back in, the way your eyes light up when you see something you particularly like.

Ultimately you settle back onto the couch with a worn copy of Fahrenheit 451, back against the arm and facing his general direction. Cap snuggles down at your feet, and Steve does _not_ think about how natural you look in his space, how comfortable you look, how your scent weaves itself into his so easily.

After the roof he goes about drying the next load of firewood — tidies up some old newspapers lying around, fixes a squeaky plank or two, cleans the plates left over from your meal, puts your washed clothes in the dryer. He catches you peeking over at times, gnawing the flesh of your bottom lip anxiously—

(And he doesn’t know it, but you’re _itching_ to get up and help. Is it your upbringing, or your natural instincts, or your own desire, you wonder? Maybe all three, urging you to stand and help him make his home all pretty for him, for him _and_ you—)

—but you always look away before you can meet his eyes. Eventually your own begin to droop as the day continues on, the sky growing darker and darker, the pages of your novel turning and turning and turning…

“‘S gettin’ late,” Steve says, keeping his voice quiet and mellow, “Sleepy, pup?”  
You don’t need to reply: he knows you are. Still: “A — a bit, yeah.”

The couch is as comfortable as an old, frumpy couch can be — which isn’t saying much. His bed’s soft, and the room’s warmer, too. He’s not exactly the spry man he used to be, but his back won’t be done in spending one night on the couch. “The room’s just opposite the bathroom, if you—”

“The couch,” you interrupt — and then you clam up once you’ve realised that you’ve done it, wringing your hands together. “Uh — if that’s — if that’s okay with you. I’ll take the couch.”

“You sure?” (Even though you’ve most definitely already made up your mind, and he’s not going to _pressure_ you into taking the bed, but—) “I don’t mind.”

“The couch is fine.”…“Thank you,” you add softly.

“You’re welcome.” He senses the conversation is stuttering to a stop — if not from tiredness, then from the general _lack of affection for talking_ that he’s picked up on. He reaches over to the couch opposite you, plucking up the blanket thrown over the back of it and one of the cushions, too. It’s just one blanket, but it’s thicker than his own blankets and it’ll keep you warm. “Here.”

He turns away just as you press your nose deep into the fabric, ignoring every single urge in him to… he doesn’t know, tuck you in. Brush back that one piece of hair on your forehead, like he used to do with—

He stokes the fire again, and goes to bed. Lays awake for an hour or two until the whistling of the wind and the thudding of the rain sways him to sleep, and he dreams of cinnamon sticks and apple pie and caramel sauce, a soft voice and softer eyes.

You wake up slowly, gradually. Not startled awake by a truck horn or a rude shout or a shove to the shoulder, but by your own volition. You’re warm and safe and surrounded by the comforting smell of timber and coffee, and—

Your sleep-riddled mind allows you just a few moments of indulgence: you inhale deeply, letting the scent of Steve wash over you shamelessly. You lean into it, too lethargic to even _form_ a little warning voice in your head. You can’t help but purr, nuzzling your face into the blanket Steve had given you, and you can’t help but feel extremely content. It’s been so long since you haven’t felt anxious or in immediate danger — so long since you’ve felt completely and utterly relaxed, like you’re just a puddle of warmth and happiness.

The rain’s eased up, a gentle, ever present hum from above, and there’s a weighty warmth on your lap. You cast a glance down to see Cap laying on the floor with his head propped over your thighs, and you stifle a smile. The gigantic hound is growing on you — and then your smile flickers, because you realise that by this afternoon, you’ll be gone. 

That’s what you want, isn’t it?

Reaching down to pet Cap’s head, snuggling deeper into your blanket, you’re not so sure. But Steve said he’d drop you into town today, and the last thing you want to be is a burden on someone.

You push yourself up, blinking sleepily at your surroundings. Although the storm is far from over, it’s lightened up enough that Steve’s house looks almost completely different from how it appeared yesterday. It’s not perfect, but… it’s comfy. The wood isn’t _worn,_ exactly — more well-loved — and with the leak from yesterday gone, it feels even more snug. He’s got the two lumpy couches face to face, a small coffee table in between them (which houses the shotgun) — an open-plan kitchen that’s very obviously not _purposefully_ rustic, but _yeah_ , it is. Everything’s lighter in the morning. Doesn’t seem so intimidating, or intense — you can almost imagine living here.

(Dangerous thoughts. _Dangerous, no good_ thoughts.)

Cap whines quietly as you slip your legs out from underneath his head, stumbling to your feet. You stretch out your tired limbs, yawning your fatigue from your body. Everything is still, almost unnervingly so, but the rain offers some sort of respite from the silence. Besides, if you push aside your deep-rooted anxiety, it’s kind of… _nice_. Calming, that is. It makes you want to curl up with a book and—

(A large, bearded alpha—)

— a cup of tea and just _relax._ It strikes you, as you pick up the book you’d started yesterday, that you are mindboggingly at ease here. You don’t think you’ve ever been like this, even at home, even with… with _him_. But something about Steve and his — his cabin and his _dog_ and his book collection (as well as the fact that you’d slept overnight and had woken up gratefully _unmurdered_ ) makes it hard for you to feel even a modicum of genuine, unadulterated fear.

(Which is more than can be said for _literally_ the entirety of Colorado, Utah, _and_ Idaho, which you’ve navigated with your heart in your throat. It wasn’t exactly _helped_ by your lack of scent blockers or suppressants, either.)

There’s a creak from the hallway as Steve’s door opens — a fresh wave of his scent, too, and you’re glad you’re facing the bookshelf because your eyes involuntarily flutter shut. He stands in the doorway, watching as you pore over the books again. You half expect him to speak up immediately, but instead he just… stands there. Watches you — and with someone else you’d be unnerved, but… it doesn’t _feel_ creepy. It just feels warm. Nice.

“Sleep well?” 

“Yes,” you say, smiling gently over your shoulder. “Thank you.”

“No problem, pup.” His own smile graces his face, though it flickers as he moves towards the kitchen. “Rain’s eased up.”

“It has.”

Cap trots along after his owner, who promptly props open the door and lets him skitter out. Steve watches outside for a moment, eyes drifting over the weather outside, and in the light of the morning it strikes you just how _large_ he is. He fills the doorway easily — all broad shoulders and thick arms and thighs and abdomen. Not the slim stature you see you on the cover of magazines, but the build of a man who’s _unbelievably_ strong. You guess he has to be — from what you’ve gathered, he works in forestry, or logging, or… something to do with the woods, anyway.

You should be terrified of him. You’re decidedly _not_. 

“You must be hungry.”

“Huh?” You feel like a kid that’s been caught with their hand in the cookie jar, practically _ogling_ at the size of his shoulders like some green girl. 

“Food?” He asks, turning until his back is against the frame, arms crossed. “You hungry, pup?”

 _Pup_. There he goes again. It’s your fault, you guess, considering you haven’t given him your name, but you also think that that’s just the type of person he is. It’s sweet. Endearing, almost — he’s got this gentlemanly, gruff, old-fashioned kind of way about him. A _good_ type of old-fashioned, that is — you’ve had enough experience with the _bad_ type.

“Y-yeah, I guess,” you say, because you feel like you’ve already worn out your welcome and you already feel guilty about having him make you something yesterday evening, and… Well, you’re hungry. 

_Don’t get used to being fed,_ a voice in your mind chastises. _Who knows the next time you’ll get some food in you?_

Hate it as you might, the voice is right. 

“I ain’t got no food in here,” said sheepishly, with one hand scratching at his whiskery chin. “But there’s a diner just outside town that’s not half bad.”

“O-okay.” Your stomach grumbles at the thought of diner food: stacks of fluffy pancakes, too-sweet syrup, slabs of salty bacon. Or greasy cheeseburgers and fries and milkshakes. It’s been _too_ long since you’ve had a milkshake. “…Thank you, again.”

And Steve smiles like he’s smiled the last time you said it. “No problem, pup.”

So there’s a quick trip to the bathroom (in which you realise that the bags under your eyes have already cleared _monumentally_ ), and you change into your freshly washed and dried clothes. You leave the garments that Steve had lent you neatly folded on the couch, and wait with your hands clasped unsurely in front of you while Steve rummages around his kitchen. He emerges minutes later with a bulky set of keys in his hands — gives a tired half-smile at the sight of you.

“Ready?” 

You jolt to attention, nodding as you begin to move towards him. Again: completely unafraid, which is more than can be said for almost every other alpha you’ve met. “Uh-huh.”

“Wait, wait, wait—” His steps stutter for a second, and you almost squeak as his ( _extremely large_ ) arm suddenly flies over your head — but it comes back clutching a thick jacket, much like the one he’s wearing. He holds it out to you, one eyebrow raised expectantly. “‘S cold outside, pup. And it’s raining, too. You’ll get sick.” 

You still, a bit hesitant — _confused_. He barely knows you, but he’s so easily just… giving you things? Especially a _jacket_ , something that carries his scent — there’s an unspoken sort of feeling that hangs in the air. Fleeting, but it’s there for a moment. You blink as you take the bundle from his hands. “Oh. Um… thank you.”

He nods his reply, before tugging open the door, and — _God_ , you’re glad you’ve got the jacket. Hurriedly you pull it on over your hoodie; it’s thick and fleece and smells _strongly_ like Steve, and you’re reminded that he’s still standing close enough to see you — so there’s no time to stop and smell the flowers, so to speak. You tug the collar close to your neck and pretend that the heat that rushes up your cheeks is from the fur lining the inside and not from… the fact that it’s _his_.

You follow Steve out into the rain just a second later, tugging the hood over your head. The ground is all muddy and soft from the night of heavy torrential rain, but Steve’s steps are just as strong and purposeful as they’ve always been. In comparison, you teeter and wobble along, squinting through the rain at the image of Steve’s pickup. 

It’s only _slightly_ battered — but maybe well-loved is the word for it. It’s a deep sort of rusty-orange, dried mud splattered against the bumpers, big, _gigantic_ wheels on both sides. Steve opens the passenger door first before rounding the truck to his own door, and your brain makes a point to make you aware of the fact that he very well could be planning to drive you out deeper into the middle of nowhere and—

You scrabble into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut behind you. The inside is a tad cold and mostly smells like… well, _car_ , if car _has_ a scent. There’s definitely the familiarity of Steve present, too, and in the back there’s some blankets piled up into a makeshift dog bed. Still, you find yourself squirming uncomfortably at the sudden silence, all outdoor commotion dulled by glass and metal.

“Is he gonna be okay?” You say, mostly just to say something. “Cap, I mean. He’s out there all alone.”

Steve looks up from where he’s flicking on the heating and grunts. “He’ll be fine. He’s a big boy, pup, an’ he’s got his own little flap ‘round back to get back in if he wants.”

You only make a little _ah_ sound. Steve kicks on the ignition and rolls the truck right out of his driveway and onto the uneven roads — content with the lack of conversation, you find yourself staring out of the window at the passing forest, the thickness of the trees, the way everything is so _green_. 

You’ll be gone within an hour or two. And, now that it’s on your mind, you should probably start planning the next leg of your trip. Steve’s gonna drop you to the bus station, but with no money, you won’t be able to get a bus. Maybe you could hitchhike, at least until the nearest town or gas station — but if you’re on the motorway _they_ could easily find you, too. You’re sure there’s some back roads you can take, or… or _something_.

For now you’re lucky you’re being fed, so you won’t have to worry about finding food for a while—

“‘s a small town,” Steve says out of the blue. “Quiet.”

“Close-knit?” You ask after a few seconds. That’s how home was. A small little lake town in Oregon — it was all you’d ever known, but you’d left it easily. It was home, but then it… it _wasn’t_. 

Steve makes a gruff sound of affirmation. “…mostly. When you live up as high as I do, you don’t exactly get a lotta company.”

You guessed as much. The main road was at least ten minutes away from the dirt road that had led to Steve’s cabin, and from there the town itself was another 20-or-so minutes away, all downhill, and all through dense forest. 

But you don’t understand how Steve is… well, alone. He obviously doesn’t have an omega — you didn’t scent one at his place or in his car or _anywhere_ , really… and he’s — well, he’s not exactly _undesirable_ , is he? He’s large and warm and kind, if not a bit gruff. He’d be a good provider. Any omega with half a nose for quality would know that he’s a catch.  
(Or is that just your upbringing speaking?)

Just like you thought, 20 minutes later you’re driving into town. It’s your average little crossroads municipality — mom and pop stores, close-knit. More trucks than cars. The roads are large and spaced out, unlike the cramped streets of the big cities. It reminds you of home, but even _here_ is more modernised than the little community you grew up in.

He pulls into the parking lot of a roadside diner, still mostly empty in the mid-morning sun. The car’s stopped and he hops right out a second later. You follow along, hoping that you don’t look like as much of a lost puppy as you feel.

There’s something… wrong with you. 

Well, not with _you_ , but with your circumstances. That much is obvious, right? From the moment you’d burst out of the forest, Steve’s known that there must be _something_. 

In truth, he’s been trying to ignore it — none of his business, after all. He’d let you stay the night and you’d be on your way the next day, no skin off his back. 

But it keeps coming back to him, every little tick that he’s picked up on. The way you flinch when you think you’ve done something to upset him, the way you got anxious when he asked if you were eating properly. You’re running from something — _someone_ , rather — and as Steve watches you power through an extra large stack of pancakes like your life depends on it, he knows that if he lets you go so easily it’s going to _haunt_ him.

His own plate is cleared within the span of 45 minutes, and he rotates between watching the few patrons of the diner and glancing at _you_. You take your syrup with a side of pancakes, it looks like, and he’s not surprised. He’s never known an omega without a sweet tooth — well, except for Peg, but Peg isn’t—

(Peg _wasn’t._ Peg _wasn’t_ , because Peggy isn’t here.)

Steve gulps down the last of his black coffee and waves the waitress over for another.

“Thank you kindly.”

You seem to be more at ease with omegas and betas, too. Point in case: you don’t clam up when the waitress reaches over to refill his mug, don’t even look up. But when an alpha walks past you to her own table, you freeze — you covertly bow forward towards the table, towards _him_ , your eyes following her until they can’t move any further. And then you begin finishing off the last of your food, lips sticky-sweet with syrup.

Steve turns back to the window — and as if called to fruition, a bus drives right past. Heading straight to Kansas City.

He watches carefully from the corner of his eye as you finish your orange juice, almost _painfully_ aware of the fact that your departure is on the horizon. He hopes you don’t notice the way his scent suddenly sours — turns his face to look outside at the trucks driving by and the rain streaming against the glass, more to hide his frown rather than admire the, uh… _beautiful_ scenery a roadside diner has to offer.

Your glass hits the sticky countertop with a dull thud, and he sees you glance down at the empty plates with your bottom lip between your teeth. You’re realizing too, then, that there’s no reason for you to still be here, that you should be leaving for the bus station — but just at the thought (fueled by his worry, his instincts, _whatever_ ) his mouth moves quicker than his mind, and:

“When you get to the bus station, where will you go?”  
Your head snaps up. “W — sorry?”

“When you get to the bus station,” he repeats lowly. “Where will you go? How will you pay for a ticket? Where will you stay when you get there?”

“I — well, I—” You’re getting flustered, but if it’s the only way to make you see that your plan is shady at best, so be it. “I was just going to… to figure it out when I get there.”

“‘Figure it out when I get there’…” He mutters, running his hand over his beard in frustration — and when your eyebrows knit together, he sighs. “Look, I’m — I’m not tryna make you upset, pup. But it’s _dangerous_ out there, y’ can’t just go out all willy nilly, it’s not safe — ‘specially for a young omega like yourself.”

Your eyes are getting glassy, and he curses to himself. He wasn’t trying to make you _cry_ , it’s just… it’s just that you don’t seem scared, and you _should_ be. The world is cruel, and it’ll be especially more cruel for you, and Steve’s seen what that does to people.

“I need to keep going,” you say, but it’s like you’re repeating it to yourself rather than saying it to _him_. “I — I need to.”

“Pup—” He cuts himself off, this time, quelling the growing lump of worry and frustration in his chest — and before he can stop himself he reaches across the table and seizes your right hand in his. Just gently, wrapping his fingers around yours, and he doesn’t even have time to marvel at how _soft_ your hands are— “What’re you runnin’ from, huh? What’s got you so scared?”

Your bottom lip trembles under the weight of your own fear — mouth opening to say something, _anything_ , but all that comes out is a choked-sounding squeak, and your breath is coming faster and faster and your scent is souring and turning and—

Steve barely spares a glance over his shoulder before he’s slipping out of his side of the booth and into yours, his arm crowding around the back of you and turning you gently to face him. He’s not quite _sure_ what exactly he’s doing, but it’s like this _urge,_ this _impulse_ to comfort you — something that aches deep in his bones and makes his fingers twitch. 

“Is this okay?” He murmurs quietly. You’re not pulling away from him — no, if anything, you melt into him, but he wants to make sure. Last thing he wants is to be one of the people he’s warning you against — but you’re _shaking_ , almost, and he has to do _something_ —

“C’mere, bub, c’mere—” His hand on the back of your head guides you towards him, until your cold little nose is pressing against his scent gland and his is dipping to your hair — burnt sugar and bitter fruit, anxiety and fear hanging in the air. “There y’ are. You’re okay.”

(It occurs to him — quite starkly as you cling to him — that he’s _scenting_ you in the middle of a roadside diner like some — some _tenderfoot teenager_ who’s just presented, like a _juvenile._ And Steve hasn’t scented an omega in… well, since Peg. Surprisingly, the reminder doesn’t hurt as much as it used to — though the old lady a few booths behind you looks positively aghast at the entire affair.)

It _also_ occurs to him that just yesterday he was dead set on not getting involved in… in _this_ , _you_ — but it’s a little too late for that now, isn’t it? And he’s not exactly bemoaning his decision: you let out a weak purr when his thumb smooths over the baby hairs at your forehead, your breath slowly yet surely steadying as you inhale his scent.

( _His_ scent. Tqhat makes his chest puff out just the tiniest bit, he won’t lie.)

“That better?” He says what could be five or ten minutes later. Warm breaths fan against his scent gland, and he has to restrain a shiver of his own — now that you’re calmed down, there’s room in his brain to fixate on how close you are, how sweet you smell, how you just _fit_ in his arms—

(No. _No._ He’s going to help you, yeah, but that doesn’t mean _humouring_ his own intrusive thoughts.)

You make a small sound that he takes as a _yes_ , and as you raise your head from his neck you stiffen just slightly. What is it that he senses, then? Is it… shame? Apprehension? It’s _something_ negative, that’s all he knows, and as you press yourself away from him and against the window, he can’t help but feel guilty. Like he’s done something wrong, and he’s betrayed what little trust you’ve got in him.

But then he… he _knows_ that you take comfort in him (and whether that’s because it’s _him_ specifically or his designation is up for speculation). The confusion and the fear and the uncertainty you’ve been carrying along with you doesn’t stem from _him_ , he knows. But he imagines you’ve been through enough to make you wary of trusting too quickly.

So he swallows his own guilt and shuffles further away: still in the same booth, but with a sizable gap between you — as sizable as a gap can be when Steve’s so _large_ , that is. Far away enough to give you the space you crave but near enough to help you should you need it.

“I — I, um—” You shuffle, reaching for your empty glass in what he guesses is an attempt to distract yourself— “I was born in a town called Port — Port Tar. It’s… it’s small and quiet and… old-fashioned.”

“Not much different here,” says Steve, throwing you a smile in hopes of easing your nerves, and although you muster up the strength to return it, your voice is still slightly shaky when you continue.

“My parents are very… conventional. S-strict, too. They… they’ve got real _traditional_ ideals, y’know?”

You stress that word: _traditional_ , your fingers dancing nervously over the smudged empty glass, and Steve has an idea of the type of people your parents are. Real severe type, he thinks. Outdated way of thinking.

“Ever since I was a girl, I — I’ve been _groomed_ to be… to be a good mate,” said shamefully, quietly, like even admitting it makes you embarrassed, and Steve’s jaw ticks. “They’ve got… expectations. Talk quietly and timidly. Never give your opinion, never sit down until everyone is served — and _never_ , _ever_ interrupt an alpha while they’re speaking.”

At that, your eyes flicker up to his before falling to your hands again.

“Last year, a, um, an alpha who lived nearby told my parents he was going to—” Your throat bobs, and Steve unconsciously turns so that he’s completely facing you, _shielding_ you — as if your fears are gonna start waltzing up and down the diner’s walkway. “He said he wanted to marry me. Bond with me, I don’t — I don’t know. His name is Brock, and — and he has a _reputation_. He’s rude and mean and he’s _dangerous_ , Steve. He — he had an omega before, and he didn’t get to bond her, but — but she always had bruises and cuts all over her and—”

For a moment, Steve’s sure that he’s seeing red. Seeing fucking _scarlet_. Because Port Tar is in Oregon and Oregon’s Omega Protection laws are infamously _shitty,_ and the fact that you’ve even gotten from Oregon to Colorado on _foot_ and/or by hitchhiking makes his stomach turn. And then you’re squirming anxiously in your seat, too, fingers unconsciously reaching towards him just at the _mention_ of this ‘Brock’, and Steve’s never quite wanted to get up and pummel a man down like he does now.

“Hey, hey,” he coos instead, reaching for your hand instead — _coos_. _Actually_ coos. Would you look at that? “It’s okay, you gotta calm down, pup. You’re gonna hurt yourself like this.”

“I’m sorry—”

“You don’t have t’ say sorry. Ain’t your fault, bub—”

“_____.”

He looks up, eyebrows furrowed. “Pardon?”

“My name.” Your fingers tighten momentarily around his, eyes wide. “_____.”

Oh. _Oh_. Steve hopes that his subsequent gulp isn’t as obvious as it feels, his answering nod coming shaky and stilted. It’s such a clear show of trust that he… almost doesn’t feel worthy of, but he grasps it with both hands eagerly.

“_____,” he repeats. It’s pretty. Suits you. “Nice name, pup.”

Your frown eases up just a tiny bit. “Thank you… Uhm, anyway — Brock… Brock staked a claim over me, and my parents — I mean, the only thing they’ve ever wanted for me is an alpha—”  
“And claims staked over omegas with parental consent are still legally binding in Oregon,” Steve finishes, bowing his head. “ _Shit._ ”

They should’ve phased that law out years ago, back when most of the States were doing it.

“They want me to start a life with him and I — I _can’t_. That other omega got out, but I won’t be able to. I’ll end up beaten or — or _pregnant_ or _dead_.”

“And your parents are _okay_ with this piece of shit just — just _claiming_ you like that?” says Steve, half incredulous and half furious. “Like some piece o’ meat?”

You give a passive half-shrug, seemingly unbothered by his crude language. “They think it’s normal. That alphas should… put their omegas in their place. And now — and now they’re _after_ me, Steve, and I can’t stop running or else they’ll _find_ me—”

You run out of breath and blink away tears, peering out of the window. Steve curses again — and then once more for good measure. Pinches the bridge of his nose and ransacks his brain for _something._ Like it or not, your parents are within their rights to just snatch you up and bring you back home, force you into a marriage with an abusive piece of _shit_ — but that’s only if they find you.

You could stay with him, maybe, but he’s got no clue of whether you want to stay in Colorado, or if you’d even want to stay with _him_ — and if not, you’ve got to have a place to live and a way to feed yourself and some sort of protection to make you feel safe and—

“Steve?” You ask timidly. “Are you — are you okay?”

“‘M fine, pup.” He sighs, turning his head towards you. “You haven’t tried omega shelters at all? There’s a good few between here and Port Tar.”

“I did. Twice. It — it was the first place I went when I left, but it was the first place they looked, too, and — well, you give a shelter enough money and they’ll send whoever you’re looking for right out.” You look as disgruntled as Steve feels. “The second time I tried a shelter they found me within… two days? I looked out of the window and I saw Brock’s car and I… I just ran. That’s where I was running from. When you found me, I mean.”

It’s right then and there that Steve decides that he’s going to do everything in his power to give you something that’s _yours_. Not some shitty omega shelter run by non-omegas that’ll hand you over at the first sign of a dollar bill — not a loveless, abusive marriage, not a stuffy house where you’re defined by your designation and nothing else. His cabin may be humble, but… but it could be yours, too, if you’d have it. If you’d have _him_.

( _Not in that way, of course_ , he hurries to explain himself _to_ himself. _Just… a protector, of sorts. A friend. Family._ )

Because that’s what you need, and that’s what you deserve — not a mate. Just someone who cares about you.

“What d’you wanna do, then?” He asks finally.

You frown. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you can’t keep runnin’, pup. That’s not safe, and it won’t get you anywhere in the long run.”

“I — I _have_ to keep running.” There’s confusion painted clear on your face. “Sooner or later they’ll find me, o-or hire a bounty hunter, or—”

“This place is pretty out of the way,” Steve says. “Most head straight for Denver — this is a layover for truck drivers, mostly. Your folks will probably stay a day or two and then keep going.”

“So, I — I — what?” The confusion gives way to incredulity, but you lower your voice as an old lady strolls past. “I just stay here?”  
“You can stay with me.” And then, hurriedly: “Or a motel. There’s one nearby, but I guessed — I mean — you don’t _have_ to stay with me, is what I’m saying.”

“…I don’t have any money for a motel,” you say, voice small. “But I don’t want to put you out—”

“I promise you,” and he’s _dead_ serious, “you’re not puttin’ anyone out, pup. I’ll pay for a motel room if that’s what you want. But you can stay with me as long as you want to, y’ hear?”

He means it. He means it with all his heart, because looking at you now — with your brows furrowed and your lips unconsciously pouted and your scent hanging anxiously in the air — he can’t even _imagine_ putting you through what your family has. So _curious_ and _genuine_ and _kind_ and he’s only known you for a day, how could they do this to you after knowing you your whole _life_?

Your mouth opens, closes — eyes growing more glassy by the second, and— “Why — why are you doing this?” 

Truth be told, there’s… no straightforward answer. Because he’s been living virtually alone for the past few years with no particular _urge_ to go out of his way to help others, but… he doesn’t know. Years of solitude aside, he was brought up with a strong set of morals, and practically selling off an omega for marriage _doesn’t_ align with them. (And it doesn’t help that you’ve practically wriggled yourself into his brain _and_ heart within the first hour of knowing you, so.)

Of course, he doesn’t tell you that. Instead, he shrugs, and says: “You deserve it, bub.”

Steve doesn’t drive back to his cabin straight away. You’ve basically agreed to staying with him, and that means that he’ll need more than canned soup and cheese and bread at home — and you look like you could use some new clothes.

The nearest store is a Walmart at the town’s truckstop — at this point in the day it’s teeming with middle-aged truck drivers and families looking for a meal before they continue on. He notices as you hop out of the pickup behind him that you’re considerably less bothered by the prospect of being close to him — that is to say, the second you see the crowds, you practically mold yourself to his spine. He doesn’t say anything — doesn’t want you to be embarrassed — but it’s… it’s _cute_. You’re like a little kitten, peeking over his shoulder as you step into the fluorescent lights of the department store. 

“What are we doing here?” You say, watching as he scoops up a basket. 

“My kitchen ain’t exactly stocked, pup.”

“Oh. Sorry.” 

He notices you do that a lot — apologise for things that aren’t your fault. Now that he knows what your upbringing was like, he can’t say he’s surprised. He’s known a lot of people who think that same way your parents do, people who have that same belief: omegas must be kept subservient and docile. It’s a load of bullshit from a time long gone.

“Never you mind. Needed to start eatin’ properly anyhow.” Then, glancing over your shoulder: “Why don’t you head over to the women’s section? Pick out some stuff?”

“Stuff?” You echo, following his line of sight to the racks of clothes a few aisles away. “Like — like _clothes_?”

He hums. “As much as I don’t have a problem with lending you mine, I think you’d be better off with your own.”

And he doesn’t, really, but he’s not gonna leave you with only the worn clothes on your back and nothing else. He’s got no clue of how long you plan to stay, but still. Anything’s better than nothing. 

“O-okay. Yeah, I’ll — I’ll go… do that.” 

Thankfully, the store isn’t too packed, but he still senses a bit of reluctance as you move away from him. Almost unconsciously he pushes his own reassurance into the air between you two, and he sees your shoulders relax just the slightest bit. 

“Go on, pup,” he encourages you. “I’ll be right here.”

He continues to pack the basket with food as you scamper off, drifting over to the ladies’ section — all grains and vegetables, because the meat is a few aisles away and he wants to stay in your line of sight. He watches as you stand awkwardly by a rail of t-shirts, prodding and poking between the material unsurely. You look so skeptical that he has to hold down a smile; it almost looks as if you’re too scared to touch them. He’ll have to go and help you—

“Steve?”

He doesn’t register the voice until it calls out again: “Hey, Steve!” 

Over his shoulder comes the narrow, fox-like face of one Natasha Romanoff. His pal Bucky’s mate — his business partner, too. They owned a bar a little while away, and it’s been _more_ than a little while since he’s visited.

Just his luck that she just so happens to come upon him _here_ , _now_. His eyes flicker towards you, before he turns to face her fully.

“Nat,” he greets, smiling — though it’s more of a wince, and they can both tell. “How’re things?”

He gives her the same cursory side-hug he always greets her with, desperately trying not to glance over his shoulder at you like his brain is urging him to. 

“Good,” she says, her eyes following his and trailing curiously over his shoulder — he’s quick to step in the way, though, effectively blocking her sights under the guise of reaching for a can of beans. “Buck’s good. Bar’s good. Grocery shopping?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat, throwing the can into his basket. “Ah — sorry I haven’t been ‘round much. Haven’t found the time ‘nd all…”

That’s a lie. He’s got more than enough time to make the drive into town — it’s just the _sitting in a bar surrounded by people_ part that irritates him. If he wants a beer, he can buy one; and he can enjoy it in the comfort of his own home, too. No sticky countertops and cigarette smoke, no smell of overbearing alpha and sweat.

“That’s okay.” She stares at him with those sharp, all-knowing eyes, head tilted to the side. She passes her basket to her other arm: all green vegetables, and a thick slab of parchment-covered meat. Steak, if he has to guess. Bucky’s favourite. “You know you’re always welcome, Steve. Buck and I miss you.”

“Yeah. I… I miss y’all too. I’ll try an’ come down soon. Promise.” 

They stare at each other for a short moment — Natasha, with her eyes narrowed as if to study him, and Steve, trying not to shuffle under her meticulous gaze. He’s suddenly reminded that he scented you not 30 minutes ago and he probably _reeks_ of omega, and his heart drops. 

But Natasha doesn’t say anything. She inhales, lets a tiny smile pull at her thin lips, and begins to back away.

“Call us soon!” She orders over her shoulder. “Buck’s goin’ mad.”

“He can hold out a bit longer, I reckon!” He calls back, relief-fueled humour on the tip of his tongue — and then she’s rounding the corner, and she disappears from sight.

He lets out a sigh of relief, and turns to check on you like he’s _meant_ to do for the past 5 minutes—

“Who was that?” You say, clutching a thick sweater and a pair of pants close to your chest. There’s a pack of underwear, too, and he quickly averts his eyes, peering over his shoulder.

“Uh, Nat. She’s a friend,” he says, looking back at you. Your shoulders are stiff and held tightly towards yourself, your lips pursed. Defensive body language, obviously. “You’ve got nothin’ to worry about, pup. She just wanted to check up on me. ‘S been a while since I’ve seen her.”

You make a small noise of acknowledgement, eyes drifting down you to your shoes, and he doesn’t know why he feels the need to add: “She’s mated to my friend Bucky.”

“Oh?” You seem to perk up the tiniest bit, following along as he begins towards the meat section. “I thought you lived by yourself.”

“I _do_ ,” he says, amused. “I used to live ‘round here, though, when I was just a pup.”

“Like me?”

He chuckles. “Jus’ like you.” He drops a packet of chicken into the basket. “Buck’s been my friend ever since. I moved up into the cabin after my gramps passed, though, and… just stayed there, I guess. I like it there.”

You’re silent for a beat, trailing behind him. “…I like it there too.”

He doesn’t know what that means so much to him. He doesn’t know why it makes his chest puff out — the idea of having a home that makes you feel welcomed, safe. Protected. He thinks his pride shows in his scent, too — he catches the tail-end of a little smile on your face, and he can’t bring himself to be embarrassed.

You line up beside him at the checkout, bouncing eagerly on the balls of your feet when you think he’s not looking. It must be a relief to have new clothes after practically living in the same ones for God knows how long, and — he can’t help himself — he finds himself secretly throwing a packet of chocolates onto the conveyor belt when he sees your eyes catch on them. You deserve good things — even something as small as some candy.

The groceries are packed into bags and hauled out of the store — you make a point to carry the heaviest one, held tightly in both hands, and he has to stop himself from smiling when he sees how you waddle awkwardly with the weight of it.

It startles him, for a moment: the domesticity of it all. As much as he relishes his solitude, it doesn’t bother him — the thought of you doing it over and over again, carrying bags with him to the car, bickering over what brand of something-or-other to buy. It’s… nice.

He closes the passenger door behind you, and rounds his pickup to get to the driver’s side.

“You ready to head back?”

You hum in agreement as you clip in your seatbelt — and he notices that for the first time, you don’t feel the need to make yourself as small as possible.

“What do you do?”

You’ve got a bunch of carrots in one hand and a bag of potatoes in the other, sitting atop the island with your feet swinging back and forth. Steve’s been busy marvelling at the sight of his cabinets _actually_ full with food for the first time in a _long_ time. Peg was always better at staying on top of things like that.

“Huh?” He asks, distracted as he takes the vegetables from you. 

You seem to grapple with yourself for a moment — rethinking your question, maybe, or wondering if you should’ve asked it in the first place. “I — I mean, your work.”

“Well,” he begins, “Uh, I work with some logging companies during the spring and summer. I cut firewood for some local businesses, too… Do deliveries, sometimes.”

It’s not much, but it’s honest work — and around here, the type of work that needs doing. 

You make a sound of understanding. “A bit of everything?”

“A bit of everything,” he agrees. He looks up, then, wiping his hands off — unsure whether or not you’re comfortable with moving the conversation towards you. “Your parents work?”

There’s a sudden, unsure lull to you. Your mouth is still open with the shape of the words you were going to say, but his question has thrown you for a loop. As if sensing your unease, Cap rises from the misshapen lump he’d formed himself into, and totters over with his tongue lolling from his mouth. His head butts against your knee, and it’s only then that you swallow. 

“My mother is a housewife,” you say. “She never really worked, ever. Her parents were just as old-fashioned as she was — she married my father straight out of high school and had me as soon as possible.”

And that’s the life they had wanted for you. Not one _chosen_ by you, but one forced upon you from birth. 

“My father, he’s a lawyer.”

Steve whistles, partly trying to lighten the mood, partly impressed. “A lawyer, huh?”

“Yeah. I mean, my grandfather was a lawyer, and so was _his_ mother, so… it’s kinda in the blood. At least, the alpha blood.”

Makes sense. He knew that some folks were still clinging to the old ways, but… well, he’d never seen it this _intensely._ Of course, he was blessedly born into quite a forward-thinking family, and even _more so_ he was born an alpha. He’s faced hardships, sure, but they were never _because_ of his designation.

“You ever thought about it?” He says.

“Being a housewife?”

“Being a lawyer,” he corrects you. He reaches for his usual mug, then, the one that he’d hastily filled with instant coffee while simultaneously putting away groceries. The coffee’s growing cold, now, but nevertheless, he lifts it to his lips as he leans back against the counter opposite you. “I don’t know the first thing ‘bout it, but—”

“It’s _terrible_ ,” you interrupt — seemingly before you can realise, and he can’t help the little glimmer of pride that wells up in him when you do. That was one of the rules, wasn’t it? _Never interrupt an alpha when they’re talking._ He’s glad to see that you’re unlearning, and he’s glad that he’s here to see it — even though your eyes widen comically when you realise what you’ve done. “…Sorry.”

“No need to be sorry. What was it you were sayin’?”

You clasp your hands together, hooking one ankle over the other. “It’s… I mean, it’s not _terrible_ , but it’s not all too good, either. Not just the job, but… my father would be home late everyday and leave early the next morning, and even when he was with us, work was the only thing on his mind. And his _colleagues_ … Lord…”

“Not the nicest?” He guesses.

“Absolutely horrible,” you exclaim — and it’s the most animated he’s seen you, he realises, and his lips split with a smile as you continue— “They’re so _cold_. And they don’t like jokes, either. Everything is so serious around them. That’s why I always hated Sunday nights — they’d come over for dinner and I was never allowed to speak until they called on me.”

Then — clearly as taken aback as _he_ is with your sudden outburst — you gnaw at your lip, glance down at your folded hands. Shame and embarrassment hang bitter in the air, and he can’t fathom for the _life_ of him why you’d be ashamed of what _they_ did to _you_.

He’s not sure of what he’s supposed to say. He knows what he _wants_ to say: that you’re safe now, that you don’t have to tiptoe around him, that you’re more than what they wanted you to be — but he’s not sure how much that’d actually help. He’s never been good with this: feelings, he means. Emotions and the like. 

But he sees the downturn of your lips — the memories you’re no doubt reliving making themselves known on your face — and suddenly, he’s filled with the urge to do whatever in his power to help you replace the bad with good. 

“…Well, today’s Sunday, if I’m not mistaken,” he says, and your head shoots up. He smiles, then, watching as you blink curiously over at him. “I’ll fix up dinner, and you can talk as much as you want.”

The words sink in. Your eyes get glassy, and you swallow, and he’s about to turn and put his mug in the sink — more to give you some privacy than anything —, when your hand shoots out to grasp his wrist. He almost jumps — it’s the first time you’ve touched him of your own volition, so he hadn’t exactly been expecting it.

“Thank you,” you say, voice barely a whisper. “I — I know I keep saying it and I know you said I have nothing to thank you for, but — thank you. So much.”

He thinks to say _you’re welcome_. _No problem_ , maybe, or: _it’s the right thing to do_ — but the words die and fizzle before they can leave his mouth. They don’t seem important enough — _appropriate_ enough, rather, to explain the way he feels. 

Instead, there’s another smile—

(How long has it been since he’s smiled so much in such a short period of time? Barely two days, and he feels lighter than he has in years.)

—and his hand clasps over yours. “What d’you want for dinner, bub?”

“She’s not here.”

It’s been two weeks of driving through sleepy little towns and half-assed rundown _shitshows_ and Brock Rumlow is tired. Tired, and irritated, and more than a little angry. The truth is that the gutsy fucking omega probably isn’t worth even _half_ of the trouble she’s putting him through, and yet here he is, because he’s a stubborn bastard and he _wants_ you. Wants you like a child wants a shiny new toy.

“We’ll report it,” your mother declares surely, nodding her head. “The police’ll have her face plastered up everywhere.”

They won’t, Brock knows. They won’t, because the world’s gone to shit and they’ve started letting omegas get too big for their boots; letting them go off, letting them _run_ from their natural duties, letting them stumble around trying to emulate their superior counterparts. It’s a whole global movement now, would you believe. His lip curls at the thought.

Brock and her parents are well within their legal rights to hunt you down, of course, but there’ll be no help from the police. That’s bad press. Your father says as much, that same monotonous superiority ever-present in his voice. 

“Best shot we have is a professional,” your father continues. He sighs, and Brock hears the scuff of his boots as he turns back towards the parked car. “An omega catcher. Bounty hunter. Private detective, whatever.”

“No,” Brock interrupts. What a joke — _paying_ someone to do a job that he can damn well do by himself. It’s one omega with a knack for running off; one omega that needs to be put in her place. “No, I’ll do that myself.”

If he has to go through the entire western half of the USA with a fine tooth comb, Brock Rumlow _will fucking do it_.


End file.
